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swivelled in a half crouch towards the space behind the slowly closing door.
    The edge of the door had caught Demmell near the middle of the face, splitting his nose and lip. A workmanlike .44 Bulldog revolver was held across his body and had he been blessed with faster reflexes he might have followed Bob Ford into the ranks of those who have written finis to the careers of the greatest outlaws of their age, but the Saint gave him no time to achieve such distinction. As Simon turned, pivoting on the ball of his right foot, his left came up in a swinging arc that smashed into Demmell’s gun hand with the speed and force of an unleashed flail. The revolver spun from Demmell’s suddenly lifeless fingers, and he cried out as the searing pain ripped through his arm.
    The Saint straightened, and took in the upheaval around him in greater detail. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents spilled onto the floor, his suitcase had been upturned and the few things he had left in it scattered around the room; cushions, pictures, books, ornaments, anything that could conceivably serve as a hiding place had been pulled apart.
    The scene angered him not so much because of its untidiness as because it bore all the hallmarks of the amateur, and the Saint disliked dealing with amateurs. Searching a room is both an art and a science. It calls for a lightness of touch, a photographic memory, and the ability to analyse the psychology of the occupier to determine where the objects of the search are most likely to be hidden. An experienced professional investigator will turn over a room, miss nothing, and leave it as tidy as when he entered, aware that the extra care taken will give a valuable margin of time before his intrusion is discovered. Should he not find what he is looking for, he knows that by not making his visit obvious he has left open the probability for a return call. The amateur, on the other hand, blunders about, not only making life more difficult for himself but also causing unnecessary distress to the victim of his attention.
    “The maid service here has just gone to hell,” Simon observed, as he picked up a favourite sports jacket and replaced it carefully on its hanger.
    He had shown his contempt for Demmell by almost turning his back on him. The revolver still lay in the centre of the room, an equal distance from both of them. Demmell saw his chance and took it, as the Saint had expected him to.
    The man moved with creditable speed, but he had covered only half the distance before a strange medley of sensations overwhelmed him. One moment he was in the middle of a diving roll, fingers outstretched towards the butt of the gun; the next, he met an irresistible force coming in the opposite direction with the speed of an express train: for one transfixed instant he felt himself flying backwards, and then the wall Mt him and he sank to his knees, with a sickening breathless agony in his stomach eclipsing the pain in his arm.
    Simon’s heel came gently to rest and he turned to face the retching man now climbing groggiiy back to the vertical.
    The Saint’s voice was a mocking drawl: “Enough?”
    In answer Demmell catapulted himself off the wall, his shoulder catching Simon in the chest and the momentum sending them both crashing to the floor. The Saint was impressed. He had kicked men in that way before, and they had rarely risen so quickly. It boded well for Demmell’s fitness and the exercise still to come.
    Just as his back touched the floor the Saint twisted his whole body, sending them both rolling over. His fist shot upwards towards the other’s head in a vicious right hook that should have ended the fight, but the blow never connected. Demmell broke Its force with his arm and his heel whipped backwards to explode at the base of the Saint’s spine.
    The Saint’s body arched like a bow and a freezing numbness seemed to grip every muscle. He relaxed his grip and Demmell wriggled free, aiming a kick at the